


Cute as a Button

by marquis



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Best Song Ever verse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 03:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marquis/pseuds/marquis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcel is very awkward and Leeroy is very much not. They are both horrible, cruel, stupid people. (That's what Veronica says, anyway. Marcel likes to think that she's wrong.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cute as a Button

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serendipitee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serendipitee/gifts).



> I'm not even sorry about this.

“Leeroy!” he calls out, hurrying over to the door and yanking it open. His hands are sweaty, slipping a bit on the handle, but it doesn’t matter; Leeroy manages to burst into the room anyway, all smiles and cheerful persona and - _what on Earth is he wearing_.

He’s talking and demonstrating dance moves, and Marcel really does try to help out a little bit, but he isn’t much of a dancer. The way Leeroy is talking – voice pitched higher than usual, fast and almost breathless – is almost reassuring; he must be nervous too, Marcel decides. That’s the only way to explain it.

And then Louis opens his mouth and shuts Leeroy down like it’s nothing. “We’d _never_ do that.” Leeroy takes a moment to look surprised.

It could get awkward. Marcel is already uncomfortable enough. “So that’s something for us to work on. Thanks, Leeroy!” he says, voice sounding a bit forced even to his own ears. He shuffles Leeroy out of the room.

If they’re not going to do the big dance number at the beginning, though, most of his designs aren’t going to sound very appealing. He knows that before he even sets up the stand, fumbling with his posters and wondering which one he should start out with. He majored in _marketing_ , for god’s sake, not _fashion_. Even asking Veronica for help with the designs didn’t make it easier; she’d only called him a sexist prick and stomped off.

So he’d gone home and done his research, watching music videos of famous groups and their best hits. Most of his outfits are based off of those, really. If there’s not going to be a dance number at the beginning, there’s no reason for them to dress like they’re in a music video, and – this is going to be a _disaster_.

“So let’s take a look at some of the styling options for the film,” he tries, clinging desperately to the hope that Louis will be kinder to him. Something tells him that won’t be the case, but he grabs the first one and shows it anyway. “Personally, I think this one is the one.” Maybe being positive about it will make it seem like he knows what he’s doing. Maybe the boys will listen if he just pretends that it’s something he knows and understands.

Their faces tell him that’s not about to happen before anyone says anything at all.

“Absolutely not,” Harry tells him.

“We’d never wear that,” Louis seconds.

Marcel takes a deep breath and tries to maintain his composure. He’s going to get fired. He’s going to lose his job. He’ll be famous all through California as the worst marketing executive to have ever worked in Hollywood. _Fantastic_.

“All right,” he says, agreeably as he can manage. “How about… this one!”

“No,” objects Liam. And here Marcel had thought he would be the _nice_ one. Based on this meeting, he’s reassigning favorites. He likes Niall best. Or Zayn. At least they haven’t _said_ anything.

He’s going to try to make this better. Harvey and Jonny are watching him expectantly, and Marcel wants to explain to them that the boys are being unreasonable, this isn’t his fault, only that’s more likely to get him fired than anything else he’s said or done today. “It tested really well!”

“Never in a million years.” Well, scratch that. Marcel doesn’t much care for Zayn.

Those were all of the good ones. The only posters he has left are the ones that he and Leeroy photoshopped as a joke, something to give the boys as a purposefully horrible gift. If they like one of them, Marcel may just decide that marketing isn’t worth it and move to Alaska to begin life as an Eskimo. He presents the first one, knowing full well that all consequences he might get are already set in stone.

“Tada!”

No rude comments, but their faces are enough. Marcel wants to shake them, ask them to please just give him a break and _smile_ or _laugh_ or something that isn’t exactly what they’re doing right now. He’d read an article once about how these boys were practically hyenas, constantly giggling and smiling and never taking anything seriously. Why did they come _here_ expecting to be serious?

He takes off his glasses and wipes at his eyes, feeling the nervous sweat and knowing that his hands are shaking. And then, when he looks up, Harry is storming across the room, toward Jonny and Harvey at their desk.

Well, at least Marcel isn’t about to be the only victim.

\--

It doesn’t make much sense, but come the next morning, he’s once again at his desk in his office, scrolling through the pictures of One Direction he can find on Google. The janitorial staff has cleaned everything up, but the large poster still hangs on the wall in the front lobby. The boys are due back in for another meeting in a week.

Marcel, quite frankly, does not understand any of it.

The glass doors to his office open and in walks Leeroy, dressed in his usual work slacks and button-up. “Morning, Marcel,” he greets, in his normal, not so politically offensive voice. “How are we feeling today?”

“A little bit confused. Might be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, as well.” He sits back in his chair and tries for a smile. “It’s not every day you get hit over the head with your own poster boards by a world-famous boyband.”

“It’s not every day you get called in unexpectedly to _write a routine_ for a world-famous boyband, either, but hey. I lived. You’ll be fine.” Leeroy drops into the chair on the other side of the desk, kicking his feet up onto the previously clean surface. Marcel feels himself grimace and wishes he didn’t care so much.

He sighs. “I know, I know, I’m _sorry_. It’s just that, well. I mean. I don’t exactly know any professional choreographers, do I? I hardly even know the names of people working right outside my door.”

“Aren’t you supposed to have, like, I don’t know, contacts or something? People who can find people. People to talk to other people’s people.” Leeroy chuckles. “You should, in theory, know an awful lot of people. You’re an executive in the marketing branch of a huge company that produces plenty of music on a regular basis. People should come in and out of your office all the time.”

“People _do_ come in and out of my office all the time.”

“People that aren’t Veronica and me.” Marcel opens his mouth to protest. “Or your mother.” And he can’t very well argue with that, can he?

It’s just that he was only recently promoted, and he’s still trying to figure out what he’s doing. It’s not exactly fair, throwing him the biggest project the company’s ever had within his first month of being an exec. Realistically, it should have been Leeroy who got the job; he’s more confident, and he tends to at least make it look like he knows what he’s doing. Except for yesterday.

Marcel tries very hard to hold back a laugh. “What was that yesterday? Pirouettes and spilts and shimmies? Lee, seriously. These boys can hardly even manage a box step without practice, as I understand it.”

“I have never written a dance before in my life, Marcel, and if you expect me to do a great job of it, you’ve hired the wrong man.” He smirks. “Besides, I’m not the one who tried to make them dress like thugs and highwaymen.”

“All of my stylistic choices for the boys were certainly better than whatever disaster _you_ were wearing yesterday.” Leeroy actually _cackles_ at him. Marcel hides his face in his hands, feels the bridge of his glasses digging into his nose. “Help me,” he moans.

Only Leeroy can’t really help him much at all, and they both know it. In much the same way that Marcel was vastly unprepared and inexperienced for this project, so was Leeroy. He used to dance competitively back in high school and through college, not that he’ll ever admit to it; Marcel only knows because Veronica is _very_ good at snooping. They even have pictures of him in leotards and spangled shirts, numbers pinned to his chest or his back. But even with all of that training, he hasn’t done any of it in years, and obviously, he’s chosen a different career path.

“Hey, listen.” Marcel pulls his hands from his face to find Leeroy leaning over his desk, smiling and looking a little bit more serious now. “They already have a stylist, right? Let her handle what they’re wearing. See if Veronica can find her number, even, so you can talk to her about it. And then ask if Veronica can find you a real choreographer, too, because secretly this company would be nowhere without her and she knows it.”

Marcel nods. “Do you think that this will actually work?”

“What, the movie? Not if you freak out again like you did yesterday. The boys are going to get a restraining order on the man with the funny voice and the broken glasses,” Leeroy teases, leaning forward even further to push Marcel’s glasses further up his nose. The crack in the center of the bridge shifts.

“I do not have a funny voice!”

“No, you’re right. Your voice is normally quite nice and, dare I say it, charming. _Yesterday_ , though, you sounded like you’d been sucking helium for a few hours.” Leeroy plugs his nose. “ _Leeroy, hnnn!_ ”

“Oh my god, Lee, you think _I_ sounded funny? You should’ve heard yourself! God, and the jean shorts? Really? What was going _on_?” He’s blushing, he knows, and his automatic defense is always to make someone else suffer right alongside him.

It works. Leeroy’s face is turning a lovely pink color that Marcel is almost proud of. “I’m not even going to apologize for that. Those boys were expecting a professional choreographer, not some guy who used to do contemporary _five years ago_.”

“Oh, of course. So that means that you had to be the most homophobic and politically offensive example of a gay man that you could possibly create. Because that’s so terribly professional.” Marcel might even snort a bit. “Just because you identify as gay doesn’t mean you can go out there and be so blatantly _stereotyped._ ”

“We work in marketing. There is nothing in the world that we do better than exploiting stereotypes, Marcel.”

\--

“So have you asked Leeroy out yet?” Veronica asks, perched on the corner of his desk because apparently Marcel’s office has become some sort of watering hole, a gathering place for the bored and the hungry. She’s got a Tupperware container full of something that smells good but looks disgusting, which basically describes everything she ever eats. Ever.

Marcel chokes on a stray bit of lettuce. His sandwich doesn’t seem quite so appetizing anymore. “E-excuse me?”

She sighs and rolls her eyes, reaching down to pat at his hair in a manner that is distinctly condescending. “If you think that it’s a secret, honey, it’s probably best that I tell you now: Everyone is _painfully_ aware of your infatuation. It’s cute, in a way, but also kind of sad. You could have made a move months ago, and you just. Haven’t.” And then, like she hasn’t just smashed Marcel’s perfect little snow globe world onto the ground, she takes her hand back and continues eating.

“Wait, you mean – _everyone_?” he demands, feeling the walls of his office closing in on him. He wishes he still worked out at the desks, where there was air to _breathe_.

Veronica nods sagely. “Including Leeroy, I think, which is kind of cruel of him. It’s understandable, though; you don’t take well to confrontation, Marcie, and if he asked _you_ on a date, you’d probably either pass out or sputter and laugh it off like you had no idea what he was talking about. Which would be cruel of you. Basically, what I’m getting at here is that you’re both horrible, cruel, stupid people and I really need to get laid so I can stop caring.”

“Maybe that kind of language is exactly what’s keeping you from getting promoted to a real position,” Marcel tells her, because he’s kind of trying not to think about anything else she just said.

“Probably. That and letting me produce real music would mean that I could come to work in pants, as well as spend most of my time in a dark recording studio down in the basement, and what kind of misogynistic asshole would let that happen?” She shrugs and points her fork at him. “Again, you are a horrible, cruel, stupid person, and if I ever catch you with an assistant forced to wear heels and a pencil skirt, you are going to end up wishing you didn’t have a penis.”

Marcel nods. “Duly noted.”

Veronica replaces the lid on her lunch and eyes him warily. “So. You’re going to do it, right? You’re going to ask Leeroy out?”

“I thought we’d moved away from that. I thought we were talking about misogyny and pencil skirts now.” He takes another bite of his sandwich, avoiding eye contact very studiously.

“I always talk about that. It’s practically white noise to you.” Fingers grab hold of his chin and lift it up until they’re looking one another in the eye, until Marcel is not capable of moving his head or breaking eye contact. “If you don’t ask Leeroy out, Marcie, you will not be receiving either of the phone numbers I spent two days searching for. That means Leeroy in jean shorts and you with a poster board necklace, both for the second time in two weeks. Understood?”

“You’re manipulative and controlling and I hate you.” And then, when she squeezes until his jaw hurts, “That’s technically not a no.”

\--

“Um, Leeroy?” Marcel asks, and it’s like he can physically feel the weight of eyes on him, because he knows without checking that an alarming number of employees have looked away from their computer screens to look at him. “Can I, um, see you in my office? Just for a minute?”

Leeroy smiles. “Oh god, am I going to have to iron my jean shorts for next week?” He pushes away from the desk, though, and follows Marcel away from nosy people with heavy eyes.

They make it into his office, and then Marcel desperately wishes that he hadn’t decided to do this at work. He should have texted or called or something; it’s a lot more professional, really, and also a lot less face-to-face and potentially humiliating.

“What’s up, boss?” Leeroy asks, throwing himself down into the extra chair with familiarity and ease. Marcel knows he’s playing with his hands, picking at his fingernails and biting at his lips, but he can’t seem to stop.

“Um, well. I was. Veronica said that. You know. There’s. Um.” Sentences are very hard. In fact, _words_ are very hard. Every single one of them feels like lead on his tongue, uncomfortable and awkward.

He’s still smiling. All of this stumbling and tripping over vowels and Leeroy’s just smiling at him, looking adorably confused. “What is it, Marcel? Are you firing me or something? Was the pink headband too much for this company to handle?”

“Dinner!” Marcel finally blurts out, before abruptly covering his mouth with both of his hands. Leeroy’s smile turns blinding, nearly, so bright and wide that Marcel becomes just a little bit worried for his health. And then he remembers that he should probably be more concerned for his own.

Ew, his hands are sweaty. Leeroy’s going to turn him down. Who wants to date someone with perpetually sweaty, nervous hands? Not Leeroy. Not even Marcel, and he’s _got_ perpetually sweaty hands, apparently. This is getting wildly out of hand.

“What?” Leeroy asks, sounding bemused. Marcel has the urge to punch him, and then he feels bad about wanting to punch someone just for being pretty, so he doesn’t actually do anything at all except pull his hands away from his mouth.

He takes a deep, unsteady breath. “Would you, um. I mean. Dinner. Tomorrow. With, um. With me. Around seven, maybe? Or eight, if that’s too early for you. Um. Please say something; I’m embarrassing myself.”

Only he doesn’t. Leeroy just kind of sits there, smiling, like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. It’s very difficult to decipher what that might mean. He could either be very happy to go or he could be very happy to be handed this opportunity to mock Marcel relentlessly. Or he could be planning to kill a man. Marcel just doesn’t _know_.

He’s just about to apologize and tell Leeroy that he can go now, wasn’t this a funny little joke, and _please_ don’t tell Human Resources or file for harassment. And then Leeroy says, “Okay.”

“Oh, alright, that’s fine, I understand,” Marcel stammers, and then he feels his eyes widen to the size of Jupiter, maybe. “Did you – I mean – okay?”

Leeroy nods and stands up, still beaming. “Okay. I’ll pick you up at seven. Veronica has your address, right?”

And then he walks out the door and Marcel is left to wonder _what_ just happened, because he certainly doesn’t know.

\--

It’s six fifty-nine and Marcel is definitely not having a heart attack. Not at all. Only except maybe a little bit, maybe, if he’s being really honest. His hands are sweaty again and he’s pacing the hall at the front of his tiny apartment, straining to hear a knock at the door.

He jumps. That might have been a knock. It also might have been Mittens knocking over her food bowl, but if it _was_ a knock, he shouldn’t keep Leeroy waiting. Really, that’s just poor manners all around. So he hurries over to the door and swings it open without even bothering with the peephole, which – well, that was stupid of him, wasn’t it, that’s how people get _murdered_.

Leeroy’s standing there, fist raised like he was about to knock on the door. He grins. “Are you psychic now, Marcel? Is that the reason for your nervous disposition?”

“Gosh _darn_ it, Mittens,” Marcel mutters.

“Mittens? I don’t think you need them, really. It’s the middle of July.”

Yes, okay, that’s a blush he can feel creeping up his neck. This date is already going swimmingly. And by that, of course, Marcel means he wishes he were drowning. “No, um. Mittens is my cat. She knocked over her bowl or something, I think, but I thought it was a knock at the door, but it wasn’t, so I opened it before you knocked.”

“Is that all,” Leeroy teases.

Marcel ducks his head to hide his smile. This is ridiculous. “Shut up.”

They both do, making their way down the steps outside his apartment. He turns to walk towards the cars lined up outside, about to ask which one they’ll be riding in, but then Leeroy is looping two fingers around his wrist and tugging him away.

“LA traffic, you know,” he explains. “I thought walking might be nicer.”

That’s usually how Marcel gets to work, actually, and he wonders if Leeroy knew that before he came. He hums in agreement, because he doesn’t know if he can actually manage words right now, and when they start to walk, Leeroy’s hand slips from his wrist to twist their fingers together.

His palms are sweaty, too. Marcel can feel himself smiling again, almost out of his control.

\--

One Direction’s video does spectacularly well. The boys are much nicer the second time around, and Veronica may or may not have even gone out with one of them. She claims to have a number in her phone, anyway.

Marcel tells Leeroy that he hopes it’s Niall’s.

**Author's Note:**

> This could have ended up being a lot longer but I honestly cannot take myself seriously enough to manage that right now like I literally just wrote over 3,000 words on characters created for a stupid One Direction music video and it already ended up being more than I anticipated, I didn't need a 10,000-word monster about two idiots and a feminist in an office building. (Why does that sound like a television show.)
> 
> Basically, the way the boys acted in the music video was kind of rude, but I loved the video anyway. I had a lot of Social Activist Blogger issues the size of Alaska with the characters Veronica and Leeroy, and I needed to flesh them out for the sake of my sanity, but I loved the video anyway. I needed to convince myself that there was more to it. Or that the entire music video was some kind of satire, which I still believe for various reasons.
> 
> This fic was the result of my desktop background being a giant picture of Marcel and the fact that Leeroy cannot and is not going to be just a personified stereotype that misrepresents a large group of people without some kind of explanation or background story.
> 
> In essence, I don't know what this is or where it came from but here you go have a fic thing.


End file.
